Disclaimer: I own nothing. Not even a treacle tart... :(
I fully realize that it's short and probably even cliche, but... I kind of like it like this :)
It was the oddest thing. One moment he was there, avoiding an argument between Ron and Hermione whose bickering had not decreased despite their relationship, and the next. Poof. Gone. The suddenness with which it happened was such that even Ron and Hermione noticed. He was simply gone, and they had no idea as to where or even how. Racing to the quarters given to the returning "eighth" years, Ron scrambled desperately to find the Map. And Harry was not there.
But he was. Only his name appeared suddenly and unnoticed upon a quite different version of the map. But that was the least troubling aspect of his unanticipated relocation. For Harry had been in the middle of bringing to his lips that first luscious, tantalizing bite of exquisiteness known to most as treacle tart but known to him as pure awesome. So, to find himself seated not amongst his bickering friends, not within reach of his reunited girlfriend, and not with even the aroma of a good, fresh treacle tart to satisfy his senses, the fact that he rather suspected the people staring at him slack-jawed were far too familiar looking was enough to ruin an otherwise perfectly good day.
He dropped the fork that was unappetizingly empty. Ignoring the commotion around him, he gazed along the length of the table. He turned to the pudgy boy next to him, noting rather absently that the boy in question bore a startling resemblance to Peter Pettigrew.
"Not a chance of there being treacle tart somewhere around here, eh?" At the boy's dumbfounded silence, Harry sighed. He had, at the pestering of Hermione (not that he would normally refer to it as such but, he was deprived of his dessert and thus felt justified), neglected his favorite dish that he might eat a "full, nutritional meal" before "gorging" himself on "sugary, teeth-rotting desserts". This was rich, he felt, coming from her, considering that she had, at the tender age of twelve, gotten him an absolutely humongous box of chocolate frogs for Christmas. Granted, she had yet to do such a thing again, and today had been no special day, but still. In Harry's mind, treacle tart made everyday like Christmas and, considering the distinct lack of happiness in his childhood, he felt that should he wish to overindulge every once in a while, well, by Merlin he ought to be able to! Harry's eyes narrowed slightly, causing the pudgy boy to recoil slightly.
Drawing himself out of his treacle tart deprived state, Harry registered his surroundings. He sighed again, this time following the action with a groan and slumping on the table. As he hit his head repeatedly on the table, he finally listened to the frantic yelling around him. He deduced that the Headmaster was coming his way. Probably with the Elder wand. Just bloody perfect.
"—master! He just- just appeared out of nowhere!"
"He seems to be having some sort of fit, sir!"
"Portkey, perhaps?" One tantalizingly familiar voice murmured.
"No, the wards don't allow it. And everybody knows apparation is impossible." Yet again, a vaguely familiar voice spoke.
"Quiet." This voice did not yell, yet it reached to every ear in the room. Furthermore, it was without a doubt familiar to Harry, which he didn't particularly count a good thing. A surprisingly strong hand grasped Harry's shoulder, encouraging him to stand up and turn around. Gasps sounded across the Great Hall as Harry looked full into the face of his dead, aged Headmaster and concluded that today was a very bad day after all.